Epitaph
by SLOVA
Summary: [Weekly Update - Nero Origins] Despite her initial reluctance, Carmilla - a demonic songstress recently freed from a ruin - accompanies Vergil in the resurrection of the Temen-Ni-Gru. His obsessive tendencies are weighing her down heavily. The tasks are arduous, the stakes are high, and her once cold demeanor grows weak when she realizes their time together is coming to an end.


**EPITAPH**

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↞I↠  
ᴅᴇᴠɪʟ ᴀɴᴅ ᴅɪsᴛᴜʀʙᴇᴅ sʟᴇᴇᴘ

 _"In that book which is my memory,_  
 _On the first page of the chapter that is the day when I first met you,_  
 _Appear the words, 'Here begins a new life'."_  
― Dante Alighieri, Vita Nuova

 _I AM A CREATURE_ of Hell, born into a time of extremes. I am not a good child, I suppose. There isn't reason for me to be. Nothing has led up to it. I suppose I've barely had a life to lead me up to anything. I don't much for the affairs of other people - or their problems - so I never bothered to involve myself much. To be frank, I have enough of my own problems to even acknowledge anyone else's. Not that I _see_ anyone else.

You see, I've been imprisoned - _for my own good_ , evidently. The demon warrior, Sparda, as stupid as he is kind, knew better than to let me of all demons walk on my own. My voice unlocks crypts that have been initially sealed for eternity. _Why_ they're sealed for eternity, I do not know. _I_ am sealed for eternity, it appears, and in my current _cell_ I have access to only a certain number of books. Sparda promised he would release me just as soon as Mundus was deleted, but judging by how much time has passed, I can only assume the stupid devil got himself killed like all the others. I grew tired of those warrior, valiant types long ago. They are just as, if _more_ , disappointing as the rest of them. Humans and demons - we are all the same grotesque mass of uselessness.

 _Where are you now_ , you might ask to change to subject from my depression. I am in the Divine Crypt of Pavle. It lies a hundred meters underground, well beneath a church that no one had lead prayer in for a very long time. You may have caught on that I have no sense of time here. I sleep mostly to quell my eternal boredom. I dream of leaving - and I dream of dying. It is a seductive thought, but it is very hard for a devil to kill herself. Eventually, I wake and resort to counting teeth again.

 _Why don't you just leave_ , you may insist. Well, the stupid one knew I would try and escape, so he's locked me in from the outside. Frankly, it was rude of him to leave me here for this long. If I needed food as often as humans did, I would have been dead ages ago. The most aggravating thing about being trapped here is the occasional archaeologist, come to take samples, trying the door, generally bothering me. Like the one at the door right now, for example. I want to sleep and this cur is what - _kicking_?

"By all means, please _continue_ ," I called, sitting up in the coffin (I moved Pavle to the back long ago). They persisted, and I am a very easy person to aggravate. "You blasted diggers!" I barked, aware that they could not hear my cries. It was something alive to holler at, at least. It was cathartic. "If you're going to scuff your shoes, do it elsewhere!"

The kicking stopped and I relaxed. Well, I'll commend them for at least giving it a try. I appreciate it, now and then, just because this is my rot way of having company over. With a heavy sigh, I climbed out of the coffin, dusting debris from my shawl in vain. I stepped up to poor, dead Pavle and touched his skeletal hand. "Want to play hide-and-go-seek again?"

Before poor, dead Pavle could reply, the thick, impossibly hard _stone door-_ bloody _flew_ across the room, shattering into fragments against the far wall. For a moment, all I could do was stare. What sort of archaeologist was this?! I let go of poor, dead Pavle's hand. A man stepped through the threshold, clad in blue.

" . . . where have you _been_?" I asked, grimacing at the tardy devil. Thought I felt relief. And I felt such cheer. "You unpunctual bast-"

"Keep your voice down, girl."

He had . . . grown cold? He knew my name; why did he not use it? Why was he staring at me with such unfamiliarity?

"Are . . . you are not Sparda," I realized, and my cheer left as quickly as it had come.

"No," he replied curtly. "You are Carmilla."

What a terrible tone. Those who speak calmly should speak so only casually. He was trying to intimidate me.

"Who are you?" I asked, stepping away from him. "Where is Sparda?" Oh, I could understand now. "You're a face-eater. I did not wait this long to have you-"

"I am his son," he said slowly, enunciating each word so clearly that I was almost insulted. But his son? Well, he was as handsome as his father - but I could smell it in him. He was part human. Humans had a particular scent to their blood. Not unpleasant, though not particular _pleasant_ either. Unpleasant on him, however. It was a stench of some woman I had never met. Such a stench that it made my chest tighten with some dull sort of anger.

"I am Carmilla," I confirmed, stepping back as he stepped toward me. "You seem . . . apt, but I was waiting for your father."

"Would you rather I leave and close the exit?"

"Well . . . " He was certainly the son. I did not like this half-breed. I gave him such a look to make sure he knew that. He didn't seem to register it very well, though. Maybe he was a sociopath. I was sure I was. He promptly turned around and headed back up the underground path toward the surface. Left with no other choice, I followed the stranger.

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Thanks for reading. Reviews are very appreciated to keep me going.


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